Puddle Poem by Michael Arthur
Puddle
I'll never sell one teardrop short
its own weight.
Oh how birdsongs were
drowning out eighteen wheelers
going down the main drag.
It's as if I can hear a blade of grass kneeling to mornings,
which take me back to words drawn with chalk rocks,
upon the unevenness
of our front walk.
Dandelions shout up through cracks.
Can I grow from baby steps
and leaps off the roof
when we'd laugh away
our falls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/12/2024 7:34:36 PM # 1.0.0.1119
